Faeries

I hear them,
hidden whispers in the
low, wee hours when
out gathering dew and
milking flowers to make
their creamy, frothy
drinks. They flit

from garden bed to
window sill and dance among
the wild splashes of color
that dot the roadways
and hide in all the best
parts of what passes for
forest these days. They

think themselves ferocious,
but beneath sharp daggers,
spiked hair, and keen wit they are
still mostly gossamer, I
could brush them aside
like cobwebs, but I have
better things to do with
them when we're alone. We

have dances to share,
adventures to have,
and, after all that, I have
cream of my own--not so
frothy, but thick and plentiful.
We will feast and be
happy.